


Ice, Ice, Baby

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: 2012 TS Secret Santa Drabble Days prompt "skating", Hockey, Janitor-closet sex, M/M, christmas fic (vaguely mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2020-04-06 06:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: A pickup hockey game pays unexpected dividends for the guys.





	Ice, Ice, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2012 TS Secret Santa Drabble Days prompt "skating"

The game's over, but there's no sign of Jim so, Blair heads towards the nearest exit, hoping to find a pay phone on the way.

He rounds a corner and a hand grabs his arm and _yanks._ Blair's digging in his heels, opening his mouth to yell for help, and looking for a weapon, all at once, when two things get through the _fight-or-flight_ surging through him — that it's Jim's hand on his arm and Jim's voice saying, "Over here."

Saying it quietly, but with the hot-as-hell growly undertone that hits Blair square in the back of the knees every single time.

Before Blair can get more than a brief look at Jim — at Jim's back, since Jim is _towing_ him — and sputter "Jim," Jim's opening an unmarked door and practically slinging Blair inside, then crowding in after him.

It's dark and — crap, boxes, sharp corners — and it smells like Lysol and Windex, and Blair gets as far as, "Why are we in a janitor's closet? We are in a janitor's closet, aren't we?" before Jim's on him in a full-body press and his tongue's halfway down Blair's throat.

They don't really _do_ closets in public buildings. And this building might be mostly empty at the moment, but before long the rink will be filling with holiday skaters, attendants dressed like elves, maybe Rudolph and the rest of the reindeer gang, for all Blair knows.

"Jim," he says, panting, when Jim breaks off the kiss for a moment. "Jim. What are you… Okay, never mind that. _Why_ are we — and when did you get here, I didn't —"

"Forty minutes ago." Jim's voice is hoarse, _urgent._ "Saw you. On the ice."

Lips land on the side of Blair's neck and he angles his head obligingly, trying not to whimper.

"You got good moves out there," Jim adds, not really lifting his mouth from Blair's neck, and this time Blair doesn't even try not to moan. "Fast," Jim goes on. "Scrappy. Took that asshole in the red jacket down like a pro." His teeth scrape against Blair's skin — and shit, now he's palming Blair's cock with perfectly judged roughness, making it resent the very existence of Blair's favorite jeans —

"Made a couple of assists. Won two arguments with the jerk who was trying to referee — who referees a pickup game, anyway?" More teeth; the faint scraping sting is left to linger as Jim's mouth moves a few inches down. "Came within a hair of getting a slapshot into the net and tying the score."

Blair's breath whines low in his throat as Jim's hand gets just that essential amount rougher. He almost doesn't notice when the loudspeakers in the hallway outside let out a minor burp of static that immediately segues into Bing crooning "You're All I Want For Christmas."

 _Almost doesn't notice._ Bing's got it half right. All Blair wants for Christmas is Jim.

And more pickup hockey games. Played on Jim's day off. 

At rinks with plenty of closets.


End file.
